


The way you touch me

by Elesianne



Series: Stories for Fëanorian week 2017 [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Caranthir is a terrible patient, F/M, First Age, Romance, Tending to injuries, Thargelion, and bantering while doing it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-02 18:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10224482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: The lord of Thargelion has fallen into a pattern with one of his healers, and one day he realises he would like to change that pattern.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have an ongoing fic about Caranthir courting a maiden in his youth in Valinor, but I also wanted to write about what kind of a wife he might have found among the Sindar in his own realm of Thargelion. This one-shot that takes place during the Long Peace is the result, thus touching on the [Fëanorian week](https://feanorianweek.tumblr.com/) prompts Lordship & Marriage. This is not 'compliant' with any of my other fics.
> 
> Sindarin words in the text: _Ai, rhaich!_ = Agh, curses!, _golodh_ = a Noldo, plural _gelydh_ , _Edhil_ = the name the Sindarin elves use about themselves.
> 
> Warnings: There are mentions of injuries and blood but nothing terribly graphic.

'Of all the bad habits you have, my lord, the worst has to be getting so gravely injured in every single battle that we always meet like this afterwards, me tending to you and you swearing at me.'

Caranthir lets out more fierce profanities as the healer explores an arrow wound, feeling for damage in the surrounding tissue. She ignores his curses and continues her chiding as she works.

'How many times have I told you not to pull out an arrow until someone with at least an elementary understanding of anatomy has determined whether it is better in to fact leave it in until a healer can see to you? You would have avoided quite a substantial amount of blood loss if you hadn't tugged this one out before riding home.'

'I left the other one in, didn't I? You should be happy enough to get to torture me pulling that one out – _Ai, rhaich_!'

She has taken hold of the black orc-arrow embedded in his shoulder. 'Hold him still, Sadron', she instructs Caranthir's attendant who is assisting her while she tends to their lord in his chamber.

'Yes, Mistress Cedweril', answers the young man. He is wide-eyed but his grip on Caranthir's arm and other shoulder is steady enough that Cedweril is able to continue her work.

Caranthir curses at her again while she pulls the arrow out of his flesh. 'Damn you, woman, I swear you do that as slowly as possible just to punish me for imagined infractions.'

'I do it slowly, you foul-mouthed _golodh_ , to avoid causing further harm to your battered body. You take care of that well enough yourself, charging madly into battle as you do every time.'

Cedweril is not trained in war and stays back at Thargelion, tending to the wounded when they are brought back, but she has heard of the battle fury that takes over their lord as soon as he sees his enemy. Yet in spite of his heedlessness in battle he always makes it back to his fortress on the shore of the Helevorn, as if by some strange grace of the gods he defied.

Every time he returns safely it is the cause of much relief among his people, both those who followed him here from the west and those, like Cedweril, who dwelt here before the _gelydh_ arrived with their bright swords and tall shields that keep dark creatures at bay. Caranthir is a strict lord and a tempestuous one, but he rules justly most of the time and he keeps the land safe.

So Cedweril cares for him best as she can, making sure his injuries will trouble him for as short a time as possible, and she doesn't mind his curses, taking them in her stride and flinging sharp words back at him. She hadn't done so the first few times, had bitten her tongue rather than speak impertinently to a patient who is her lord as well, but she soon realised he prefers his healers' manner acrid rather than gentle.

There are many ways to deal with pain, Cedweril knows. For the lord of Thargelion, the agonising moments of staying still while he is hurt more in order to heal him seem to pass easiest when he gets to lash back at the healer.

Some of the other healers don't realise this, she thinks. Their attempts at a soothing and polite manner must be the reason Caranthir has taken to requesting that she be the one to see to the injuries he gathers at every battle.

Still trading barbs with him, Cedweril cleans the arrow-wounds, applies poultices and bandages his arm and shoulder. Satisfied that those wounds should heal well, she turns her attention to his other arm and the long, ragged slash that runs down from the elbow. She cleans it, very thoroughly since orc blades are often laced with vile poisons that can cause trouble even to elves, and then picks up her needle again.

Caranthir pulls his forearm away, cradling it in his lap. 'Surely you're not going to jab at me with that again? You must know that I have other things to do besides being poked and prodded. I need to organise a group to–'

'If you let me stitch this wound, it will heal faster and better and allow you to return to all of your duties sooner, and to pick up a sword yourself.'

He scowls at her but extends his arm again. 'Be quick about it.'

Cedweril knows better than to pay any heed to a patient's opinions even if that patient is her ruler, and takes her time closing the wound with care. During the day her hair has come partially undone from the braid she wound around her head, and she has to blow stray strands away from her face as she works. Caranthir is uncharacteristically quiet; Cedweril suspects that the furious energy brought on by facing death is finally fading.

She doesn't notice it, but Caranthir closes his eyes while the sharp needle pierces his skin again and again and she murmurs quiet words of prayer. For a moment he allows himself to be as tired and hurt as he is, but even then he tries to concentrate on the touch of Cedweril's fingers on his skin rather than the twinges of pain from the needle she wields in her other hand.

She has touched him many times, all over his body, her fingers always deft and competent, her manner brisk and practical. But even though he is always injured when she touches him, he sometimes has difficulty remembering that he should derive comfort at most from her touch, not pleasure and certainly not dashes of desire. Being brusque and tetchy with her helps a little with that, but he can't keep it up forever, and neither can he blame his reactions solely on being light-headed with blood loss.

He must smell of sweat and blood and orc-filth; Cedweril smells of healing herbs, the sharp but not unpleasant scent of them wafting from her hair that stubbornly keeps escaping her braid. He'd secure the curly strands behind her ears for her if he could, if he didn't have blood on his free hand.

He really should request a different healer next time, but he already knows he won't.

Cedweril finishes her stitching and glances at his face before spreading cleansing paste on the stitches, probably worried by his quietness.

'I am fine', Caranthir tells her. 'Just finish your work.'

She sees that the battle fury has indeed faded from his eyes, leaving them dark and deep but still lit by that near-unbearable light that all who came from the west carry within themselves.

For the hundredth time she wonders how much light there must have been in the land of the Valar that it still burns in everyone born there.

She couldn't ask him that, though, so she says, 'Yes, my lord', and returns her attention to his arm. Spreading the paste, bandaging the forearm – then there is little to do but to rub arnica ointment on the bruises on Caranthir's ribs so that they will heal faster. She expects him to protest this as a waste of time, but is glad when he tolerates it in silence.

'You shouldn't have ridden home through the night in this condition', she tells him and hopes her soft tone doesn't irritate him. 'You had warriors with you that have some skill in tending wounds. You should have made camp and let them help you.'

Caranthir shakes his head, a weary gesture of defiance. 'It wasn't safe to stay and rest. We were ambushed once and we could have been surprised again, this time in the dark while wounded and vulnerable. And besides, none of the others were as gravely wounded as me. It was better to ride home.'

'Your wounds are cause for concern as much as anyone else's, if not more', Cedweril says and turns away to gather her supplies back to her healer's satchel, leaving only one bottle on top of the ornate chest next to the bed.

Caranthir wonders if she avoids his gaze on purpose, and whether she only worries for him because he offers the best protection for the land that has always been her home.

(During the short northern summers he has seen her going swimming with the other Sindarin maidens in the lake; they dive fearlessly into the cold, dark water and float among the shadowed reflections of tall mountains and evergreen trees, and their chatter creates quiet echoes that ring across the still surface of the deep lake.

Cedweril's healer's robes and apron are rather shapeless, but Caranthir knows her to be beyond lovely beneath them because he has seen her emerge from the water, grinning with delight, her shapely limbs shining with waterdrops, the shift she strips down to swim in clinging to her graceful curves…)

Gruffly he says, 'I would have been fine if I had been in my mail rather than hunting leathers. Damned cowardly creatures ambushing us from the shadows.'

Cedweril's fingers sweep down Caranthir's arm once more, ostensibly checking that the bandages are securely tied off but her touch doesn't feel as purposeful as usually, and Caranthir hopes that she is doing it mainly to reassure herself that he is still here and well. He takes her next words as confirmation of his hopes.

'You will be fine as it is, and soon since you _gelydh_ heal fast. But you really should rest now, to recover from losing so much blood; will you let me give you a sleeping draught, or at least promise to stay in bed?'

He hadn't intended to rest quite yet, but she speaks softly now and it doesn't enrage him, just makes him want to allay her worry. 'There are a few matters I need to attend to before I can rest, but I can do that from this room. If I take your foul-tasting concoction, I should still have enough time to speak with one or two people before it sends me to sleep, is that not right?'

'I can give you a dose that allows that', Cedweril nods. She takes the bottle she left on the chest and measures a small amount of the dark, treacly liquid into a cup of water. The pungent smell that arises when she stirs the mixture makes Caranthir grimace.

Before she passes the cup to him, Cedweril asks, sounding like she knows the answer already, whether he would come to recover at the infirmary with the other wounded so that the healers could keep a close eye on his recovery.

'I know asking this is in vain, but I must do it because the senior healer told me to', she adds.

'You're right, it's no use asking. As always I will recuperate in my own room where I can attend to business without disturbing others who need rest, and without being disturbed myself. If I need you, I will have Sadron send for you.'

He nods at his attendant who is currently engaged in cleaning away the bloody cloths and towels Cedweril used, as well as the pieces of the tunic she cut off him. 'You can clean up the mess later, boy. Go fetch Aphador and Magolben.'

The young attendant bows smartly and leaves the room with swift steps to seek Caranthir's steward and guard-captain. Cedweril puts the bottle of sleeping draught in its own place in her satchel and rises from the stool she has been sitting on next to the bed. She tries to pass the prepared draught to Caranthir, but he waves it away.

'Not yet. There are things I need to tell you.'

'Oh.' She is confused. 'Do you want me to find you a shirt? Or to wet a cloth for you to wash some of the blood away?' She gestures at his face, which is covered in smears of black and crimson blood alike.

Caranthir raises a hand to touch his cheek, looking surprised to find the mess there. 'I'd forgotten about it.' He gives a grim chuckle. 'I must be a frightful sight.'

'A little odd at most, with a clean body and a dirty face.' Cedweril had washed most of the blood on his torso and arms away while she checked his wounds, as well as on his thigh where there had been a gash. He is wearing nothing but loose breeches now, and a blanket draped half-across his legs.

'If the way I look isn't very offensive to you, I'll leave the washing and dressing for later. Sit down for a while longer.'

Cedweril obeys but says, 'I do have other patients to see, my lord.' She looks him determinedly in the face, for the sight of his bare body, bruised as it is, and his arms bandaged, is causing some emotions in her that are very inappropriate for a healer to feel towards her patient. And it is odd to sit here like this, not doing anything.

'Just a moment', Caranthir says, and his eyes are on her face as well, dark and intense and bright in spite of the exhaustion and hurt he must be feeling. He never accepts any medicine that would give him relief from the pain.

 _I believe he hates feeling half-asleep and vulnerable, but it would be easier for me if he weren't so watchful right now,_ Cedweril thinks, and tries to push the shameful thought away while she waits for her lord to speak.

'Sometimes in moments like this, after you've stripped me of my clothes and put your hands all over my body to tend to my wounds, I find myself thinking that I'd quite like you to touch me in a different way.'

Cedweril stares at him in shock, though not in horror.

'I'm not asking you to do anything inappropriate', Caranthir assures her with a mild look of amusement. 'Just telling you that one day soon, I would like to spend some time with you when I am not bleeding in five different places.'

Cedweril straightens her shoulders. She can contend with him when he spits curses at her, so surely she can also hold her own when he speaks in this different, unexpected manner.

'Would you like to go swimming with me?' It is a challenge of sorts.

Caranthir is a little taken aback but also very pleased with her answer. 'You have noticed, then, that I sometimes watch you.'

'You don't stare as openly as the other _gelydh_.' She shrugs and sweeps rebel locks of hair behind her ears. 'It makes it all the more noticeable.'

'But you don't mind.'

'It is a compliment of sorts, isn't it? And we _Edhil_ are not as prudish as your people.'

'No, you are not. I've found it fits me very well.' Caranthir smiles crookedly; he is very content with his eastern land in the shadow of the mountains and his people who, Sindar and Noldor alike, are fierce and loyal.

And there is yet more contentment to be found here, and more than just contentment, he believes.

'I would indeed like to go swimming with you', he says and watches Cedweril flush a little. No doubt he is red-faced himself beneath the blood and dirt, but that doesn't matter, not now.

'You should let yourself heal completely first', Cedweril answers, her eyes sparkling like rare sunlight on the Helevorn. 'If you wish to keep up with me in the water, that is.'

Caranthir smiles again, downs the sleeping draught and tells Cedweril he'll see her again when she comes to change his bandages and then, later, in the water.

Before Cedweril goes she presses a kiss, soft but bold, on his dirty forehead, touching him in a different way already.


End file.
